


at the end of it all

by SOMNlARl



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everything Hurts, I Made Myself Cry, I don't usually write angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Or Do I?, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/SOMNlARl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen is wounded at Adamant. Dorian blames himself.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Cullen, behind you! Cullen!” But his voice is lost in the din of battle and he’s just raising his hands to throw a barrier when the blow falls and Cullen crumples to the ground.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	at the end of it all

**Author's Note:**

> For [xxstar-lordxx](http://xxstar-lordxx.tumblr.com/) who was lovely enough to prompt me. 
> 
> _Could you write one where Cullen gets severely injured during Adamant? With lots of angsty Dorian refusing to leave Cullen's side._
> 
> Talk Cullrian with me on [tumblr](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com). Or prompt me. Whatever. 
> 
> Comments are life. <3

_Adamant_. The Grey Warden’s pride and jewel since the second blight now fallen into ill-use and disrepair. Hardly surprising, Dorian thinks, that the corrupted Wardens would now choose this place to summon a massive demon army. They’ve been fighting for hours and he downs yet another lyrium potion, grimacing at the taste of it; he fingers the remaining vials hung on his belt, knowing his supply is close to depleted. 

The rift twists around itself, swirls of glowing green pulsing sickeningly then fading away; his head pounds in rhythm with it and he blinks rapidly to clear the fog from his head. As the next wave of demons appears Dorian ducks as a lash of pure lightning arcs above him. “Demons. Always with the demons. I could have sworn I’d mentioned that I hate demons!” he growls under his breath, aiming his staff and breathing a sigh of relief as a few quick blasts of fire slow its relentless advance. 

“Pride demon, look out!” He yells, scanning the ramparts for allies as he lobs a fireball at the monster, watching in satisfaction as the flame catches and the demon stumbles backwards. Bull’s hacking away single-handedly at a despair demon across the way, Cole and the Inquisitor have a pair of rage demons cornered between them - Cole looks fatigued, his blades flashing slowly, so he throws a quick blizzard in their direction - and Sera’s picking off wraiths from her perch atop the battlements. The soldiers seem to be holding their own, keeping in formation as they advance upon a group of Warden mages. 

Another flash of lightning catches the corner of his eye and he whirls around to see the pride demon raising its whip above… 

“Cullen, behind you! Cullen!” But his voice is lost in the din of battle and he’s just raising his hands to throw a barrier when the blow falls and Cullen crumples to the ground. 

Dorian freezes for just a moment as his mind tries to make sense of what he’s seen; but no, it’s the truth, the horrible, agonizing truth that can't be pushed away. He races across the ramparts, shooting blasts of flame at everything that moves in his peripheral vision, not taking the time to see if it’s friend or foe. There will be time for apologies later if they survive this. 

He collapses onto his knees, shaking and half-sobbing from fear and exertion, as he finally reaches Cullen’s side. 

“Dorian... “ Cullen whispers, opening his eyes slightly. “You’re here.”

The battle is still raging around them, the air thick with blood and screams, the shrieking of demons as they wither back into the Fade. No healers in sight and no way to call one. 

Dorian swears under his breath, moving his hands quickly over the man; a natural healer he isn’t but still he presses restorative energy into Cullen as he moves down and back up his body. Broken ribs, a jagged gash from his brow stretching down his left cheek and a large, swollen lump at the back of his skull but the most pressing concern is the blood seeping from his side where his armor parts which is beyond Dorian’s skill to heal. Rough edges, shredded skin; a terror demon’s claws from the looks of it. Fumbling, his fingers find the wound and press tightly against it, willing Cullen’s flesh to knit the way he can’t force it. 

“Dorian… I…” Cullen coughs and grimaces at the effort, flecking his lips with blood. 

“Hush, don’t speak. You’re going to be fine.” Dorian whispers, leaning his forehead against the Cullen’s, rubbing at a smudge of ash on his temple with his thumb. 

“I just… you found me. I didn’t think anyone would find me. I thought... I’d be alone. At the end.” Cullen’s voice cracks and then fades, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“No!” Dorian says vehemently, heart pounding high and tight in his chest. “You do not get to say that. Not here. _Not now_. This is not the end.” He summons another barrier with one hand and presses the wound tighter with the other; it’s all he can think to do and he knows it’s not enough but it will have to be. “You are not allowed to leave me now, not like this.”

* * *

The battle slows around them as the last wave of demons depart back to the Fade and Dorian lets out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Cullen’s still breathing - he can see the slight rise and fall of his chest - and for a moment he allows himself to think that the danger is past. Until the dragon shows up - because of course a dragon would show up at the worst possible moment, this is the South after all - and Lavellan who had been approaching them throws a quick, apologetic glance their direction and runs off, daggers flashing in the moonlight. There’s little practical he can do beyond replenishing their barrier

* * *

After what feels like hours the fighting finally slows.

And now the surgeon and her complement of healers arrive and just in time; just as his barrier is flickering, announcing its slow, inevitable death and his mana is too depleted now to revive it. 

“It’s about time,” he hisses as the surgeon pushes him out of the way, frowning as she inspects Cullen’s wound, barking instructions to her underlings. One hands a blanket to Dorian who takes it gratefully, pulling it around his shoulders - even in the desert it seems he can’t escape the cold - and the others gather around Cullen, gingerly lifting him up into the air. 

“Is he… going to be alright? Where are you taking him?” Dorian chokes the words out as he rises, stumbling slightly on tired feet. 

The surgeon looks exhausted, all black-ringed eyes and shaky hands. Their attack on Adamant must have brought heavy casualties. She opens her mouth to speak and closes it again, biting at her bottom lip before answering. ‘It’s… difficult to say. I must conduct a full examination. For now, we return to the tents.”

“The tents? You must be joking! He needs to be taken back to Skyhold, you can’t possibly treat him here! Have the horses saddled, we can leave at once.” Dorian protests, a shrill, ragged tone in his words that he can’t smooth out. 

A hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades and he looks up into the dark eyes of the Seeker. “They can not move him back to Skyhold, Dorian. He has lost too much blood. For now, this will have to be enough.” 

Cassandra’s hand rubs awkwardly at his upper back as he drops his head, clenching his eyes shut against the prickle of heat he can feel building behind his eyes. “You should get some sleep, Dorian. There is nothing more you can do, it is in the Maker’s hands now.” 

“I’m not leaving him!” he retorts, spitting the words from between his lips like venom. She’s trying, he knows, in her own way to be comforting but she’s nothing if not a warrior, more suited to yelling orders than whispering _there there’s_ into the night. Dorian shakes off her hand and stalks off after the healers.

* * *

His fault. 

That’s all he can hear, knows the truth of it all the way into his bones - _your fault_ ; voices whispering in his head, guilt and blame seeping into every inch of him. _Never enough, never good enough for him, You should have been quicker, should have been paying closer attention. Your fault. He’s going to die and it’s all your fault_. 

Dorian presses his knuckles into his eyes, rubbing away the exhaustion of battle until everything goes black and light flashes behind them. It’s been hours and Cullen’s scarcely moved since he was first laid down in the healer’s tent. Silent, still; even as the wound in his side was cleaned and stitched he was still, nothing but a soft whimper escaping his lips. 

_He’s going to die and it’s all your fault._

“Shut up!” Dorian growls under his breath as he presses another handful of elfroot salve against Cullen’s side with one hand, the fingers of the other threading through the man’s hair. At least the healers had given him some way to be useful even if it seems to help nothing at all. 

The surgeon whisks back into the tent, kneeling at his side. Her hands flutter over Cullen, laying her hands across his forehead first then down to his side, clucking approvingly at the wound. 

“ _Fasta vass_! He still hasn’t woken up, even for a minute.” He knows how he sounds; childish, impatient, frightened but he can’t help it. Tendrils of terror curl around every thought, teasing at him. _Never enough, nothing you do will ever be enough_. 

“That is not a surprise, Ser Pavus. You must be patient.” She fixes him with a hard look that softens quickly as she gets up to leave. On to her next patient no doubt but even remembering how often she has been in to tend to Cullen he bristles that there could be anyone as important to take up her time. “There is no fever at least, that is… encouraging.” 

He sighs wearily, pushing back the forelock that has flopped against his brow. Again.

* * *

Dorian can’t sleep. Won’t sleep. He would like to but he can’t, not with Cullen lying there; so much smaller without his armour, so vulnerable. 

And so he doesn’t though his eyelids are heavy now, his body begging for any respite, no matter how short. He doesn’t need it, can’t need it. It’s not right for him to need anything, not now, not here; not with Cullen hurt, a hurt that could have been avoided if only he had been better. But Maker, he’s so tired, his head throbbing with fatigue and he lays his cheek against Cullen’s chest, closing his eyes. 

What he needs, what he’s been so close to having these past few weeks is Cullen and now that’s exactly what he can’t have. He should have said something more, anything; should have made his concern clearer, should have kept the man from coming with them to Adamant. Any of his senior officers would have served in his stead and now… 

_Your fault. Nothing you do is ever good enough._

* * *

He wakes with a start - gasping - whispers of nightmares long past thick in his head. _You will never be good enough. You are a failure, you are not my son_. Searing, endless pain, fingers twisting at his insides; tearing, sharp nails gouging at his flesh and always the ceaseless, pulsing agony of blood and magic. Blood magic. And then there are hands, strong hands on his shoulders, pushing him down, into the earth. 

Dorian tries to turn but the grip laid on him is too tight, tries to fight off his attacker until he hears a soft, soothing voice rumbling behind him. 

“Shhh… It’s just me.” The Bull. Of course. He relaxes instantly, blinking, bleary-eyed as he turns to look at the Qunari. 

“What time is it?” How long has been asleep, he means. How long has he failed to watch over Cullen. Again. 

“Early.” Bull shrugs, gesturing off to his side. “You should eat. I brought you some stew. It’s crap but it’s better than nothing. And it’s not varghest.” 

“No, thank you. I’m not…” 

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry and I don’t care. Eat.” Bull interjects, a scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re no good to anyone if you get sick so just eat it, alright? If you don’t the Seeker might just kill you herself.”

He sits up, leaning against the Bull’s side, and raises the bowl to his lips. It’s dreadful, it always is but he’s learned to choke it down these last few months. The Inquisition’s soldiers know how to make one thing and even that they make terribly but still, it’s something. After a few mouthfuls he places the bowl back by his side and leans over to check Cullen’s wound again only to find it packed full of salve and much less angry-looking than the night before. 

He looks at the Bull questioningly, his fingers trailing across Cullen’s forehead and up through his hair. 

“Sera, probably. She had first watch while you were passed out.” Bull’s fingernails rake at the side of his head and he shivers as the Qunari’s fingers hit the sensitive, shorn patches of his scalp. 

“Sera? How long was I…?” How long has he shirked his duties, how long has he failed - that’s what he means. That they would even call in Sera… 

“About a day and a half. And don’t look like that - Sera’s not so bad.” The Bull shrugs again, casually. “It was a tough fight, too many fucking demons. Lavellan figured you could use the rest seeing that you ran out of lyrium potions way before you fell. And some help.” 

“I don’t need help! This is… my responsibility. I should have been watching more closely, it’s all...” He digs his thumb and forefinger back into his eyes, willing himself to stay awake despite the way sleep beckons, the way it’s enticing him back into the grasp of the Fade. 

“Your fault? Yeah, yeah. I heard you in your sleep. You know how stupid you sound right now?” Bull’s voice takes on an edge, almost a growl but somehow laced with too much tenderness. 

“It’s not…” he sighs. “You wouldn’t understand, Bull.” 

“Wouldn’t understand what? Knowing that if you’d just fought harder you could have protected him? That if you’d just been a few seconds faster all of it could have been avoided? Yeah, no. Being too slow isn’t how I lost my eye or anything. Clearly I wouldn’t understand anything about that.” 

“Vishante kaffas! That’s not what I meant. You just don’t have… love. Under the Qun. It’s different.” He turns back to Cullen, rubbing a smudge of ash from his cheek. _My fault. I should have been watching closer. So close to having everything with you and now..._

Bull snorts as he rolls his eyes, bringing his flask up to his lips and drinking deeply, coughing as he swallows. He passes the flask to Dorian who sniffs the offering apprehensively then taking a drink, then another as it turns out to be nothing but wine. “Yeah, I’m sure a ‘vint would know everything about that. We may not have relationships under the Qun but no system can keep you from love.” 

“Go back to sleep, you crazy ‘vint asshole.” And he fights it for a time, until the Bull’s fingers at the back of his neck finally coax him back into unconsciousness and the nightmares that await him.

* * *

_Get out! You are no son of mine!_

“He wishes he hadn’t meant it.” 

This time Dorian wakes to the shadow of Cole’s hat, blocking the early morning sunlight from his view. He’d like to be grateful but he isn’t. 

“Digging too deep into my mind, Cole? What have I told you about keeping it superficial until you ask permission?

“I’m sorry, Dorian. You were just… so loud.” Cole pushes at the bangs hanging down across his eyes, trying to force them to rest behind his ears. 

“It’s… alright. But that doesn’t hurt me anymore. Not really. Shouldn’t you be helping him?” He sighs as he drags himself upright again, looking down at Cullen beneath him. The man has more color now, no longer looks like a corpse summoned back to life, but still he sleeps. 

“You want it to be _real_. Hoping, wishing, wondering. What if it’s too late? What if he doesn’t want me after?” 

“Cole! Drop it, please! I’m not the one who needs your help right now.” Dorian rubs at his temples, a nagging ache settling behind his eyes. 

The spirit cocks his head, eyes bright; questioning. 

“He doesn’t need me now, Dorian. He knows you were there. Dark, so dark. Dark and cold and no one’s there. No light before the end and then… there’s him. Glimmering. Stretching out a hand. Not alone, never again.” Cole raises a hand to rest at the side of his jaw, blade-calloused fingertips caressing his skin and Dorian pulls back, away from the spirit, away from the worry he doesn’t deserve. 

“Dorian, it hurts you. But it’s too tangled with the love, a knot, tight in the pit of your stomach. I want to help but I just pull it tighter, hurting you. And that hurts him”

* * *

He doesn’t sleep again, he can’t. He doesn’t know if Cullen can hear him but he talks all the same until his voice gives out. Tells Cullen of his childhood, of Tevinter, of his travels; of every bit of minutiae just to keep from sleeping again. Sleep, where he might forget; he can’t forget, his own failings echoing too deeply inside him. 

He’s removing the linens serving as bandages - a move so practiced now he could perform it in his sleep - with one hand, stroking at the man’s hair with the other when the tent flaps part softly and Lavellan enters. 

“Before you even start with that ‘it’s my fault’ crap, shut up.” She’s nothing if not blunt, he thinks as a wry smile spreads across his face. 

“I mean it, Dorian. You will stop blaming yourself, you will get some actual sleep and you will wake tomorrow ready to ride back to Skyhold.”

“You can’t possibly mean that! He can’t be moved. I will stay here until Cullen can safely travel and not a moment before.” 

“You will not. We are all leaving. Cullen included. Tomorrow. The healers have assured me that the threat of infection is past and the Commander can safely travel. I’m sick of the Approach, you need an actual bed and we are getting out of this varghest and darkspawn-blighted wasteland. I do not expect any more arguments from you.” 

“But…”

“Did I not just say ‘no arguments’?” Lavellan interjects, her face stony but softening every second she stares at Cullen. “The healers have assured me that he can safely be moved now whether or not he regains consciousness. You will share a horse; you may watch over him that way.” 

It’s too much; for the first time in his life he finds himself speechless, wholly unable to find the right words. He lowers his lips to Cullen’s forehead, ghosting them across the man’s skin. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

* * *

Cullen wakes before dawn the next day to the weight of Dorian’s head on his chest. Everything hurts; his skin, his hair, every joint knotted, on fire with too much sleep. He breathes in, as slowly as possibly, wincing as he exhales. 

He desperately wants to wake the mage but he doesn’t, noting the deep circles under his eyes and the slow, steady, exhausted rhythm to his breath. He settles instead for lightly tracing his fingers up Dorian’s neck, satisfied at the soft, happy sigh that slips from between his lips. 

He wasn’t alone. It wasn’t the end, clearly; that he wakes now is proof enough of that. But Dorian came for him, came to protect him; it was more than he’d ever dared to dream of. 

A mage and an ex-Templar. It’s the stuff of nightmares, the stuff of fiction; the sort Varric might write, full of exaggerations and sentimentalities but still, everything he’s thought of in the quiet hours of morning when the thoughts won’t leave him. Perhaps Varric isn’t so wrong after all. 

The surgeon comes by with too many questions, too many potions and poultices and he tolerates as many as he can bear before snapping at her to leave him, leave them. 

Dorian stirs as he struggles to sit up, gasping at the sudden burst of pain searing across his side. 

“Cullen…” Dorian breathes and it’s then that he realizes that Dorian is crying. The peculiar catch in his voice, eyes bright, flickering with tears blinked back hastily. 

“Dorian, it’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine,” he says, reaching a hand down to thread his fingers through Dorian’s hair. 

“Why are you talking? Did I say you could talk? Or move for that matter?” Dorian tries to sound stern, even as he’s sitting up now, as his hands are reaching round to circle Cullen’s waist, as his breath is hot against Cullen’s neck. 

They stay like this for what feels like hours, Dorian pressed against him; not moving, not speaking, just _being_. The words are there, in the silent spaces between them. 

“You’re back,” Dorian whispers, a faint echo of a smile pulling at his lips. “Everything’s going to be fine.”


End file.
